“I don't want him to be on his own,” my nine-year-old son says as we are debating what to do about a very vocal cat at the front door of Marymount Hospice. He’s been there the past couple of evenings. Snow white, extremely friendly, with the aura of an absolute diva.
“He’ll be fine, love, he’s probably just wandering around looking for some attention, he’ll go home soon,” I tell him. But I ask the guy at reception just in case. He gives me an update a couple of days later.
The cat has been brought to the vet, they found that he’s neutered but no chip and is now happily rehomed, and my son stops fretting. The mention of Marymount, for some people (and me up to quite recently) can elicit a shiver of dread. It’s word that can evoke a kind of visceral fear, a little kick of worry in the stomach.
Marymount used to be up the north side of Cork city, on Wellington Road, the original hospital was started in 1870 by the Sisters of Charity, initially to provide healthcare services for the community. The vision for this hospital was inspired by the generosity of one Dr Patrick Murphy, who bequeathed his property to the Sisters of Charity with the condition that they establish a hospital for cancer patients. Growing up, it was a place spoken about in hushed tones.
If you were told someone was going into Marymount, it wasn’t good news. I have a very clear memory of hearing my mam telling a neighbour about a friend who had been admitted to Marymount. This would have b.
